


Phantom Pain

by KimboKah



Category: Backstreet Boys
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 21:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11322108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimboKah/pseuds/KimboKah
Summary: "He's not heavy, he's my brother"Sequel to 'When we Collide'With the prospect of another tour and being part of the team again, Brian might push himself to the extreme, to show everyone what he's made of. But could he be going too far?





	1. Prologue - Backstreet Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure where to take this story yet, so if you have any suggestions/plotpoints, be unafraid to share!

Prologue

**Backstreet Rising.**

               The music is soft, the stage dark. It's very ominous and unlike any Backstreet Show we're used to. The theatre's stage seems completely bare at the start of the show. Whispers and mutterings spread throughout the crowd. No one is sure what is going on or what is taking so long. The few trial shows before this one were fairly short and noticeably poor received, looking like a cheap version of Backstreet's greatest hits with only four members. The disappointment spread through the fandom like a rapid infection. Rumours even more so. Did the Backstreet Boys lose their abilities to entertain a crowd of reminiscent women? And the glaring absence of the fifth member left plenty of room of speculation as well.

               The announcement of the start of a mini-tour that would only hit theatres throughout the United States seemed like a crazy and desperate idea at the time to many. Various digital news papers and polls proclaimed Backstreet's downfall, and taking the last two shows in account, I myself was not very hopeful to possibly make this article an accolade.

               The music gets louder, but it's not the cheerful and ever-familiar tones of their trademark tunes. It sounds like an annoying buzz, and stops just as suddenly as it begins. I hear a few women next to me whisper about possible technical difficulties, but they don't get further than that explanation before finally something happens on stage. A spot on the center of the stage reveals a treadmill, while the rest of the stage stays shrouded in total darkness. I am fairly certain this opening did not take place in the previous shows. The sound effects of thunder accompany the ominous spotlight. A feeling of uncertainty spreads through the crowd, that is suddenly not sure of what they can expect. Curious whispers echo through the rather small theatre in LA, which still seems a strange choice compared to the larger and more common theatres in this area.

               A high pitched scream startles the mass as a viewer from the left side of the crowd discovers movement on the stage. From the right side where I stand, I cannot see Howie Dorough until he appears in the spotlight, right next to the machine. Without a word of acknowledgement to the raving public, he gets on and starts to walk slowly, pushing a few buttons. After a minute, he shrugs, unimpressed, and shuts the machine off again, leaving the stage without glancing back.

               The confused faces all around me would have been funny if I wasn’t as confused myself. AJ McLean comes on, welcomed by the same kind of excited cheers as his previous band mate, but appears to be starting the same ritual of ignoring, getting on the treadmill and leaving within a minute. The feeling that it is weirdly part of the show is growing. I feel like it is supposed to mean something, but Backstreet Boys aren’t known for their hidden messages and deeper meanings in live shows, so it keeps me on the edge of decision. Nick Carter gets a roaring approval of the crowd as he comes on, seems to fall out of character for a split second as he secretly smiles while looking at the ground. His role seems to have little variation compared to the previous two. He gets on the treadmill, jogs for a minute and then steps off. Waving quickly at an admiring fan in the middle. Even Kevin Richardson, seemingly the last to come onstage, has no problem ignoring everything around him and leaving as quick as he came.

The stage stays completely quiet and empty for a whole of three minutes. And just when I, and a few women around me start wondering if we should ask for our money back, it suddenly all makes sense when the fifth member comes on. The noticeable limp that would be forever in his step doesn’t seem to distract him and he looks at the fitness machine in determination. Seemingly steeling himself for a second, he then proceeds to get on the treadmill and starts walking. A heavy silence, which is very much unlike any other Backstreet Boys concert I have reviewed, spreads through the watching public. Unlike his band mates, Brian Littrell looks up, staring directly into the crowd.

“Oh, come on,” he declares through his headset, “This is no big deal.”

The loaded statement demands respect and it clearly works, judging by the hushed mumbles of approval and admiration around me. Slowly, the crowd comes back to life, cheering Brian on as he dares to start a slow jogging run on the treadmill. His running technique seems a bit clumsy, but it’s all the more admirable when you consider the fateful bus accident only ten months ago, that almost took Littrell’s life. Although nothing is officially confirmed as of yet -as we know Backstreet is often slow and reluctant with official statements- a firm and steady speculation that the forty year old singer is missing his right leg keeps on growing. But official releases and press conferences for this show aren’t until next month.

Without further ado, Brian takes a deep breath, commencing the first notes of ‘Everybody’, an all time fan favourite. Suddenly, the music is everywhere and the stage is fully lit up, revealing the other Boys as they run up the stage. Brian keeps a walking pace on the treadmill throughout the entire song, not daring to dance the well-known routine with the other band members. We don’t blame him.

The rest of the show quickly turns into a pleasant acoustic set of their trade-mark love songs, with a few up tempo songs mingled into the bunch. The absence of the familiar dance routines does sting a little bit, but is very understandable, given the situation. I am still not sure what made them decide to include such an opening sequence in the show. Maybe to impress or to confront the crowd by showing what you can achieve with hard work and determination.

 And to throw in an overly used cliché, Backstreet’s Back, and they’re as strong as ever.

 


	2. In which a Ball of White Fury tries to Sweep Brian off his Feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure where to take this story yet, so if you have any suggestions/plotpoints, be unafraid to share!

_Six months ago_

In contrast to popular belief, I wasn’t often sick as a child.

It’s just that I got so sick once, my family treated me like I was made of glass. For reasons I didn’t understand back then, I suddenly wasn’t allowed to play soccer anymore, which at that time, I loved more than any other sport in the world. When I asked why, my parents would just declare that it was too dangerous. Soon, everything seemed to become too dangerous for me to play. And although I hadn’t been sick for years, I could always clearly distinguish the fear in my mother’s eyes whenever I announced I would go and play basketball with some friends.

Later, much later, I’ve come to understand the irrational fears of my parents. It truly must be the worst thing that could happen to a parent when they are forced to watch their child slowly dying in a hospital. I remember my Dad telling me one day about the total and utter helplessness he’d felt during that time. It is one of my worst nightmares if something like that would ever happen to my own son and I could do nothing but watch. It left a huge mark on the remainder of my childhood. The constant disapproval those first few years of me doing stuff other people would think nothing of was driving me insane. Why couldn’t I play sports the way other people played them, without my Mom worrying I would go into cardiac arrest or something? Was I weak? Was that what they wanted me to believe?

Over the years, I’ve dedicated myself to proving that that was not the case. I was not weak. I was strong and agile and athletic. I played just about any sport in school, whether my parents approved or not, I didn’t really care at that time. And it was going perfect. I was as healthy as any child in my class, I had a bunch of friends. We built tree houses and played Star Wars and over time, it seemed my parents slowly loosened up on their worries. They grew proud of the solid determination I possessed and didn’t shy away from gloating about everything me and my brother achieved to other parents at school or at the church.

I try to remember that as a white hot pain travels menacingly through my left leg. It hurts so much that I think about just passing out for a moment and that would be that. I keep my shaky vision on the ground, my arms straining from the obvious weight I put on them and sweat surely dripping of my forehead like someone just emptied a glass of water over my head.

“Come on, Brian!” Desmond, my PT encourages, “You’re going great, you’re already halfway there, just a few more steps. Send me a postcard when you get there, alright?”

He says exactly the same things as he always does, I suddenly realize and glare at his two legs standing next to me and the support bars I use to hold myself upright with. He and his two legs. I wonder how he would like it to try and find proper balance on a practically broken leg. You wouldn’t like that, would you, Desmond?

The pity show is complete when my brother walks in, feigning the same enthusiasm as Desmond when he carefully plants the tray with glasses of water at the end of the bars. Is that supposed to be some kind of encouragement? Some kind of reward in that I finally get some water and rest when I make it to the end of these bars? I glare at Harold the Third, who carelessly smiles back at me. That malicious pleasure on his face makes me want to scratch his face up.

“What are you looking at?” I snarl at him, biting my lip firmly as I move my hands a little further, consequently forcing my leg to move as well. God this was torture. Four months and I still went at fifteen feet an hour.

“Where’s your leg?” Harold asks with a frown.

“I sent it back,” I answer, grunting as I slide a bit further again.

“W-Why?” He asks, perplexed.

“It was too short,” I say, panting now, “Can we discuss it when I’m done with this?”

“You can’t keep sending every single one of them back, Bri,” my brother comments, completely ignoring my request. Although I’m still looking at the ground, I can tell he’s scowling at me.

“If it fits, I won’t send it back,” I answer, annoyed. My leg starts protesting in earnest now, sending sparks of pain through my spine whenever I put weight on it. “I’m done,” I announce, out of breath.

“Oh come on, Brian, a little further, this will go on your record,” Desmond interrupts, his Australian accent as thick as ever.

“If it’s up to you, it’ll never fit,” Harold grumbles, still scowling.

I shake my head, watching a few drops of sweat make their way down, “I’m done,” I grunt, breathing hard. Desmond nods, clearly disappointed and I roll my eyes. I know I’m not making much progress here, but I can only go so far.

A loud yapping sound breaks the awkward silence and in a flash, a hairy, white ball of fury comes sprinting towards me, causing me to almost lose my balance.

“Baylee!” I yell through the gymnasium, “how many times do I have to tell you to keep that dog out of here?”

My twelve year old walks in, his ever-annoyed expression surely on his face and quickly grabs the over-excited Maltese, that is still running in mad circles around me. “Chill out Dad,” he comments, “She just wants to greet you, she always does when somebody gets home. Don’t you, Lucy?” he smiles, directing his attention at his dog now.

“I’ll try to remember her good intentions, when she runs me over next time,” I mutter, turning my head to stare at Desmond impatiently.  The Australian therapist grabs my chair and places it next to me in one quick motion. With a few grunts and groans, I manage to get in, sighing as the weight is relieved from my arms. My left leg is throbbing and I moodily watch my son cooing to his dog.

“Desmond, you can leave now, thank you,” Harold speaks up before turning to stare down at me, “We need to talk, bro.”

I raise my eyebrows. What authority did he have to send my therapist away? What authority did he have to demand that we should talk? I wanted to start yelling at him, but refrained from lashing out in front of my son. My temper was rather easy to trigger lately and Harold was steadily getting on my nerves. He treated me like he’d always done; like a little kid. I glare at him as I try to ignore the throbbing pain, which certainly does not help in the process of keeping my anger in check.

“Bay, can you take your dog upstairs? Your Dad and I have something to talk over,” unbelievably, Harold dares to take charge again, ordering my kid around.

“You can stay if you want,” I interrupt, looking at my brother challengingly.

Baylee looks at each of us with a confused, but clearly annoyed, look on his face. He rolls his eyes, clears his throat and walks out. The fact that my own son prefers to listen to his uncle instead of his father pisses me off beyond belief. Harold wanted to treat me like I was six years old? Fine, I’ll act like I’m six years old.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t just tell my son to get out!” I growl, leaning forward for emphasis.

“I figured he’d rather be somewhere else than here to see you snap at me,” My brother replies, irritatingly calm.

“Screw you!” I hiss.

“There you go.” Harold raises an eyebrow, not impressed.

“This is my house, you can’t just come in here and tell everyone what to do! That’s not up to you!” I spit back at him. Ever since he’s been staying over here, slowly but surely, he’s taking over the household. Sure, I may not be as mobile as ever, but this was still my house, _my_ family. I tell him how I think about that in no uncertain terms and sit back, feeling myself shaking in anger.

My brother sits down, studying me patiently for a few seconds before he sighs, “Everyone here is just trying to help. You should start learning how to accept it, bro.”

“I don’t need your help,” I lie. I need nothing but help, and it drives me crazy. I’ve been home for two months and still spend more than half of my day in bed. I wasn’t able to do anything or go anywhere without having people to help me move. I felt like I was going insane.

“Whatever, bro,” my brother answers in that degrading tone of his as he gets up, “and don’t send any legs back again. It costs a crapload of money whenever you do that.”

“I have a crapload of money!” I yell at his retreating back as he walks out.

Stupid brother. What did he know? Did he ever feel the searing humiliation of trying on a prosthetic leg? Only I could know if they fitted, and quite frankly, none of them did. It wasn’t like I could work with them until I had found enough balance on my other leg anyway. Desmond had even confirmed that. What did Harold even know?


	3. In Which Harold Leaves His Brother in the Room While Kevin Comes Over

The enormous mansion never really ceases to amaze me. I myself have in no terms a small house, but it pales in comparison to Brian’s place. I know it has been a dream of his to have such a beautiful home, but when you consider it’s essentially for just three people, it’s pretty unbelievable. I remember the huge amounts of time, work and money - especially money- my cousin has shoved into this place and I can’t help but staring in wonder as I make my way through the spacious lobby.

For some odd reason, Baylee is always the first one I encounter whenever I drop by to visit. I suspect he has a sixth sense when it comes to detecting visitors, but I cannot prove it. From the look on his face before he sees me, I can easily derive that he is not in a very good mood, but he manages to plaster on a bright smile when we make eye-contact. The dog in his arms starts to squirm when it notices me and is eventually freed from its restrains when Baylee lets it jump to the ground. Immediately, the small Maltese sets off to a run, jumping up and down around me, but only barely able to reach my shins.

“Kevin!” Baylee welcomes me with a grin, not paying attention to the wild monster drifting in mad circles around me. He used to call me Uncle Kevin, but ever since he figured out his Dad and I are actually cousins, and I’m technically not his uncle, he resigned in just calling me by my first name. He seems a bit surprised to see me. I know I haven’t visited in quite a while, not since Brian first got home from the hospital, actually. “What are you doing here?”

I smile back at him, trying to ignore the small dog taking a hold on my pants leg. “I was coming to see your Dad, actually.”

“Oh, okay.” Baylee looks away briefly and mutters something under his breath that I can only decipher as ‘Good luck’.

“What was that?”

“What? Nothing,” Baylee replies innocently, looking around, “Did Mason come?”

“No. Sorry buddy,” I apologize. I purposely did not tell my son where I was going, knowing he’d insist on going with me. I did not feel like taking an eight year old along all the way to Atlanta this early in the morning. Don’t get me wrong, I am very glad that Baylee and Mason get along so well, but my trip has been stressful enough without having to deal with a boy that gets bored every ten minutes. Kristin knows where I am, she’ll tell him. I’ll deal with his wrath when I get home.

Baylee shrugs, deftly scooping his dog from the ground in one fluid motion. “They’re in the gymnasium. I think he just finished therapy,” he mutters as he points down the hall. “Brace yourself,” he whispers conspiringly with a grin.

“What?”

Baylee raises his eyebrows, ignoring my question completely, “I’m supposed to go upstairs. But I’m not going to,” he informs me, then leaves for the kitchen, his dog yapping a happy kind of goodbye at me.

I blink in confusion a few times and then shake my head, “Weird kid,” I mutter to myself and start to walk into the direction Baylee indicated. Before I even set three steps, I see a figure leaving opening the door and storming out. Harold doesn’t notice me at first, but then looks at me with wide eyes, the same surprise on his face as on Baylee’s a few minutes earlier. “Kev! How are you?”

“I’m great! I was c-”

 _“-crapload of money!”_ Brian’s voice comes through the still open door. It isn’t hard to figure out he is angry and I give Harold a surprised look. Harold looks at me intently, then resolutely shuts the door.

“Whatever you do, don’t go in there, for your own sake, Kevin,” he states seriously, while I try to find any source of humor in his expression.

“What is going on here?” I ask incredulously. The mood has certainly changed since the last time I came over. The house is darker, more silent too. Harold rolls his eyes and moves away from the door.

“My brother thinks he doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Harold grumbles while he walks towards the kitchen. I have to speed up to keep up with him, “Well, if that’s what he thinks, then fine!”

“Wait, you just _left_ him in there?” I ask, not able to keep the disapproving tone out of my voice.

Harold scoffs, opening the door to the kitchen and letting me in, “Trust me, if you knew how he was acting, you would do the same thing. Want a drink?”

“He can’t walk, Harry!” I counter incredulously.

“Oh, I know,” Harold answers, weaving himself through the kitchen before opening a cupboard and retrieving two fancy-looking glasses. “Everyone knows that really well, except Brian. He doesn’t accept anyone’s help when it’s offered, so I say, let him stew for a while. He’ll figure it out.”

I sigh, finally sitting down and accepting the drink from Harold’s hand. It sounds like my cousins are driving each other crazy.

“You left him sitting alone in the gym?” Baylee pops up beside me, nearly causing me a heart attack. “Cool! He’s gonna kill you!”

“Nobody’s gonna kill anyone,” Harold states calmly, looking at his nephew thoughtfully, “I thought you were upstairs.”

Baylee looks at him strangely, “You’re not the boss of me,” he comments solemnly before turning around and making his way upstairs.

Harold watches him leave, his eyebrows raised, then sighs and slumps down in his chair, “So much stubbornness in one family. How do you deal with that?”

I sit back, sipping my drink thoughtfully, “You just gotta roll with it, I guess. I must say, it _is_ quiet around this place.”

“I suppose Brian’s mood keeps everything nice and pleasant at a distance, I mean, he already fired two maids and a nurse,” Harold mumbles. It sure must be bad, cause I don’t remember ever seeing my cousin this subdued and annoyed. He truly seems completely fed up with his younger brother’s behavior and I start to fear for my own mood as well if I stay too long. “Lately, his default mood seems to be a four year old that can’t get what he wants.”

“Ah yes,” I nod, finally recognizing something in the description, “that’s not just lately.”

Harold scoffs, a small smile playing with his mouth, “He’s just so angry and frustrated all the time. It makes sense, I guess. But I wish he could just get over it a little and let people help him.”

“Well, it has only been four months,” I try to reason. “I know that if anything like what happened to Brian happened to me, I would not be over it yet.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Harry sighs again and props his head up on his hand, staring down at the table, “Did you know he send another leg back?”

“What? Again?”

“That’s right. That’s five legs in two months. He’s spending money like it’s water. I know Leighanne’s already pissed at him for sending the previous one back.”

“Why’s he do it?” I ask in confusion.

“He insists they don’t fit. Which is crap, because they are custom made and measured in all sorts of ways.”

“It’s probably a psychological thing,” I theorize, “If he accepts the leg, he has to accept reality. Maybe he isn’t ready for that yet.”

Harold heaves another sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, “Yeah well, I’ll let his therapist figure that one out. What am I gonna do with him?”

I shoot upright, suddenly remembering what I came for, “Oh! There’s a meeting tomorrow! I was gonna tell him that. You know, maybe he just needs something to look forward to.”

“I guess,” Harold looks at me, confused, “Couldn’t you have told him that over the phone though? I mean, it’s quite a way from Los Angeles to Atlanta, you know?”

“Can I not just randomly visit my cousin anymore?” I ask. Of course I could have just called and told him about the meeting. I also know that he would have refused, like he refused to participate in the last three meetings we’ve had. Something tells me that it may be harder for him to decline when I tell him face to face. That, _and_ I wanted to see how he was _really_ doing, without him lying to me about it over the phone.

“Sure. Well, go ahead. I suppose he’s happy to see _you._ ”

I felt a little bad for Harold as I left him there, sulking in the kitchen. He was doing his best, I know that. I also know that both brothers can be incredibly stubborn when it comes to accepting help from the outside.


	4. In Which Brian Seeks Revenge and Kevin Wants to Talk

_‘’Just when he’d slowly gotten to his feet, determined to find out how the other band members had fared, he saw the flames. There was no warning, no sound that preceded the explosion and he’d had just enough time to wonder if he should duck, run, or both when the fire suddenly had seemed all around him and he was thrown backwards violently. He may have gone through the already crystallized front window, he didn’t remember. All he remembered was telling himself that these were probably the last seconds of his life as he knew it and that he should be glad that at least, it would happen quickly.’’_

By the time the door finally opens, I am drenched in sweat, pissed off and sore. I had clenched my teeth to keep from any sound escaping as I feel the painful spasms running freely through my left leg. Over the weeks, I have become fairly used to my leg protesting with pretty much anything I do, but that doesn’t mean I like it, let alone that I should be forced to sit through it. I have a wide range of colorful painkillers in the kitchen.

A kitchen I can’t reach.

I stared at the opening door with the most intense gaze I could muster. I am moderately surprised to not see my brother, but my cousin walking in, pushing the wheelchair without a worry in the world.

“Kevin?” I ask, astonished, momentarily forgetting to maintain the angry stare on my face. When did he get here? Why am I not informed of anything that’s going on around me anymore these days?

“Oh, I just arrived,” Kevin says as if he is reading my thoughts. He could be scary like that sometimes, like he knew what you were thinking about with just one single look into your eyes. With some amount of precision, he places the wheelchair right next to the chair in which I am sitting. “Your brother told me what happened.”

“I bet he didn’t tell you everything,” I grumble, shifting as I feel another spasm.

Kevin looks at me with worry, which is nothing new. Basically, he’s looked at me with worry for the past three years, ever since he returned. I usually always tell him I’m fine and he usually always pretends to believe me. We’ve gotten by like that for a long time. “I think he told me everything I needed to know.”

“Did he say how much of an ass he was to leave me sitting here in pain?” I growl, forgetting for a minute that I am mad at my brother and not at Kevin.

“Yes,” Kevin answers flatly, then grabs my arm when he sees I’m trying to move into the wheelchair. I swat him away angrily, “he also mentioned how stubborn you are when it comes to accepting help.”

With a satisfied grunt, I finally manage to get into the chair. All by myself, thank you very much. Kevin sounds surprised when he talks about me being stubborn. I really wonder why. It’s nothing new, I’ve always been stubborn about accepting help. If you are forced to prove you are not weak for most of your entire life, wouldn’t you be stubborn?

I don’t tell him any of that as I grab the wheels and start rolling towards the still open door. Now that I am somewhat mobile again, the first thing I am going to do is find my brother and run him over. Kevin seems fairly surprised at my proficiency and speed when it comes to the wheelchair. But given the fact that he hasn’t bothered to visit in two months, I am not surprised at his surprise.

He runs after me in that clumsy way of his, yelling something about us needing to talk. I’ve done enough talking, it was now time for some action.

I wheel myself through the hallway skillfully, deciding that I would most likely find my brother in the kitchen. Opening the door with practiced ease; I roll inside, a smirk of satisfaction covering my face when I see my brother indeed in the kitchen. His eyes widen and he gets up immediately, seemingly scared of the promise of pain in my eyes.

Without a moment of hesitation, I wheel me and the chair straight into him, connecting the hard metal front with both of his legs.

“Ow!” Harold howls, grabbing his shins. He looks at me in astonishment while gingerly rubbing the pain away.

“There! Hurts, doesn’t it?” I sneer with an evil smirk. Somewhere, I kind of hope he’ll get two extremely colorful bruises which will hurt for a long time. Just to give him some kind of taste of what I have been through.

“What the hell was that for, Brian?” He yells angrily, finally sitting down when he determines that I am not likely to repeat the action.

“That’s for leaving me in the gym for thirty minutes,” I grumble, turning around and rolling to the counter. “Could you open that cupboard?”

“Oh sure, now he wants my help,” Harold mumbles and I roll my eyes at his sarcasm. He does as I asked anyway and opens the cupboard door, grabbing the bottle of painkillers from the shelf. “Here, not more than one.”

I roll my eyes again, fetching the bottle from his hand. “Fine,” I mutter, taking two anyway. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to, if my brother hadn’t left me sitting there on my own after therapy for half an hour. After a few minutes, the stabbing pain in my leg lessens and I am able to relax a little bit more. I turn around, looking at Kevin, who’s been silently observing us from the other side of the kitchen. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

Kevin nods and takes a seat at the kitchen table. I place the wheelchair carefully in the open spot that has been designated for me a while ago. I already know what he wants. I know what he came for, and I know we’re probably gonna have a fight about it. I pointedly clear my throat. Harold jumps up and walks to the door, “Yeah, you kids talk it out,” he mumbles before leaving.

“I’m not coming, Kev,” I state clearly, before wheeling backwards.

“Wait,” Kevin commands sternly in a voice that leaves no doubts about its seriousness. “We are going to talk about this.”

“No,” I answer slowly, “You are going to try to convince me you are right. I’m not gonna give in. Then we start yelling, until eventually, you are going to leave pissed, and not come over for another two months,” I theorize, remembering the similar situation two months ago, at the welcome home party AJ had organized.

Kevin’s face falls as he also remembers that event. “You could at least try and not leave everybody in the dark about what’s going to happen.”

“Nobody knows what’s going to happen, Kev. And I don’t appreciate the pressure you guys are putting on me all of the time,” I sigh, realizing we’ve started this conversation anyway, despite my efforts to avoid it. We’ve had the ‘pressure’ conversation more than once, but he still doesn’t seem to understand it.

“I’m not putting you under pressure, cuz, I just want to know where you’re at, we all do,” Kevin explains patiently.

I sigh, avoiding his staring eyes by focusing my attention on keeping the wheelchair in balance as I lift the front wheels in the air and balance on the backwheels. It’s fun, it’s moderately dangerous. That is kind of my style. “If I told you,” I mutter thoughtfully, “that it’s exactly where it was at two months ago, wouldn’t you be disappointed?”

“Of course not!” Kevin says indignantly, “And that’s not true at all! Look at you! You’re mobile and pretty fast. You just drove your brother off his socks to gain revenge! You can do more than you think, Brian.”

I scoff and shake my head, letting the front wheels land on the floor before sending them back up again, “Oh yeah?” I grumble, “I can’t walk without two solid bars to hold on to. Even then I’m going at fifteen feet an hour. I need my brother and my wife to help me to the bathroom. And unless you are willing to help me take a shower, I’m gonna be reeking of sweat for the rest of the day.”

“It’s gonna get better, Brian,” Kevin sighs, knowing I’ve been told that exact same phrase over and over again ever since the accident. “But it’s not gonna happen overnight.”

“Whatever,” I grumble, balancing a little higher in the air for my own satisfaction.

“Could you stop that?” Kevin comments, “You’re gonna break your neck too?”

I smile, recognizing some of the old, annoying Kevin in his voice. I ignore his request completely, expertly keeping my balance, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Sure you do,” Kevin mutters, “Until you don’t. You seem to forget you’re forty.”

“And I’m already in a wheelchair, Kev. Can’t I have some fun?” I ask sweetly. Somehow, I am enjoying this banter more than anything I’ve enjoyed during the past two months.

“If fun is another trip to the ER for you, than no, you can’t have some fun,” Kevin comments in exasperation as he gets up and walks to the coffee machine on the counter. “You should rehire that nurse you fired if you have trouble accepting the help from your brother and wife.”

I grunt in disapproval, “No way. She was a mean bitch.”

Kevin turns around and looks at me, his eyebrows raised as he stirs his coffee thoughtfully, “If my sources are correct, _you_ were the one being a mean bitch.”

“If those sources are my brother, he’s lying,” I comment, finding enjoyment in wheeling myself around the table a few times. I may not be able to move freely very much, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to get rid of an excessive amount of energy that always seems to be stored up somewhere. I can see it’s annoying Kevin to no end, which actually gives me even more energy to do so. That’s kind of how that system works, I guess.

“Then hire another one,” Kevin suggests and I crane my neck to look at him.

“Do you know how much homecare costs?” I ask.

“According to my sources, you have no trouble throwing money away.”

I stop dead in my track and turn around instantly, shooting Kevin a fiery glare, “If this is about the legs, I had all the right reasons to send them back.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” Kevin mutters, sipping his coffee and avoiding my intense gaze.

“It’s not even any of your business!” I exclaim incredulously. Did Kevin really think he could just come over after two months and tell me stuff like this? “What exactly have you been doing for two months that’s a good enough excuse? It’s like heart surgery all over again! Why do you show up all of a sudden to tell me how to live my life?” The anger I promised myself not to let through is steadily boiling up inside me. Kevin did have some nerve.

“All I’m saying is that you could have kept a leg,” Kevin grunts, not impressed by my angry tone.

“You don’t know that! It’s not your leg! Your leg is fine! You don’t need to try on other legs to see it they fit or not, so how can you even say that?”

Kevin looks at me, his features softening. I know that look. It’s the Look of Pity. I’ve been thrown that look before. “You’re right,” Kevin mutters softly, “I’m sorry. I should have come over sooner.”

I sighed, nodding, “I’m sorry too. For yelling.”

At least Kevin did come over. The only other one of my friends I’ve seen during this period is AJ, and I suspect that’s because he feels responsible for some odd reason. I’ve tried to tell him that he’s not responsible for a bus crash in the middle of a storm, but he won’t have any of it. He comes over, stays a few days and then leaves again. It’s alright. We have fun during those days, but he is so awkward when it comes to my slow recovery.

Kevin’s phones buzzes and he frowns, looking down to check it. He sighs. “Nick,” he informs me matter-of-factly. “He wants to know if we talked yet and if you’re coming tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“Business meeting,” Kevin says.

“And he can’t send me a text personally why?” I ask in annoyance.

“I have no idea. That kid is being extremely confusing these last few weeks. I have a feeling he needs to tell us something important, but chickens out at the last possible second.”

I nod. That did sound like my younger band mate. “Maybe’s he’s leaving.”

“What? Nick?” Kevin mutters incredulously, “Never.”

“He’s not the most patient one in the world,” I counter. With me being down for at least a good six months, Nick was bound to be considered a fugitive sooner or later. But Kevin was probably right. For Nick to actually leave, would be the last thing to happen.

Kevin’s phone buzzes again, indicating Nick’s impatience. I roll my eyes, “Fine, I’ll be there, tell him that,” I mumble, already reluctant to be forced to go out into the outside world tomorrow.

 

               In public.


	5. In Which the Elevator is Broken and Nick Shares some News

_‘’Later, much later, he would say it was the fierce pain in his right leg that made him go, although it didn’t make much sense at that time. Later, much later, he would say it had been a warning, a foreboding cry for help.’’_

I sigh a deep sigh. An old man sigh. Darn, I am getting old. I have been standing in front of the elevator for a while, staring holes into the sign that is pretty much ruining my motivation.

_Out of order_

Taking eight floors worth of stairs is not on my wish-list this morning. I shake my head in frustration, muttering curses under my breath. Why does this always happen?

“Well, at least I tried,” I hear him before I see him. Turning around, I see him staring at the sign as well. Weird, I haven’t even noticed him coming into the building.

“I suppose we could take the stairs,” I grumble. Brian gives me the I-am-tired-of-your-shit-Nick look and turns himself, and the wheelchair he is sitting in, around.

“This is just classic,” he mumbles, aimlessly wheeling around the lobby. “It’s like the universe telling me I shouldn’t have come.”

I try hard not to stare at him as he rolls behind a decorative lobby plant, then spins around and comes back my way. After everything that happened, he still can’t stay still. Kevin has already told me that it was kind of amazing how agile Brian has become with that chair, and seeing it for myself now, I have no doubt that Brian would be able to keep up with us even if he is in a wheelchair.

It gives me the tiniest bit of hope.

“Oh come on,” I drawl, deciding against the option of following my older friend around and instead plump down on the soft sofa in the middle of the lobby. “I’ll carry you, it’ll be fun.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Brian answers sternly from the other side of the room.

“ _He’s not heavy,_ ” I begin to sing in an annoying tone; “ _he’s my brother._ ”

Brian looks at me as if he wants to strangle me, then shakes his head, “I am not your brother, Nick.”

I give him a mock look of hurt, gasping in shock, “What?”

“I am your father,” he grins, the robotic, gravelly tone in his voice executed just well enough. I laugh. The reference never gets old to me. Glad that the strange tension is broken between us, I crane my neck to look at him as he speeds over the clean tiles like it’s nobody’s business. “Where is everybody?” he asks.

“It doesn’t officially start for another twenty minutes,” I supply. “You know how everybody is usually _right_ on time?”

“Yet you’re here,” he counters, not bothering to look at me as he flies right past me. It was fun to see at first, but now he’s kind of making me dizzy.

“Yeah, right back at ya,” I mutter and sigh as I sink deeper into the sofa. Another twenty minutes of watching Brian race around the lobby seems like an eternity. I remember the strange anxiety I woke up with this morning. I wouldn’t have been able to be late even if I wanted to. I blink lazily as my eyes follow Brian, who is going faster and faster for no apparent reason other than boredom.

“She’s pregnant,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, and watch as Brian grabs the wheels of his chair and comes to an abrupt and impressive halt a few feet away from me.

“W-what?” he says. His words are less impressive than his actions, apparently.

“She’s pregnant,” I repeat more quiet and see Brian trying to process the little bit of information that was given.

“Lauren?” he asks a bit redundantly.

“Yes,” I reply, nodding for emphasis, “My wife. Is pregnant. From me,” I add as an afterthought.

 Brian doesn’t laugh. Instead I watch him bite his lip in concentration and he looks at me sternly. “Well... were you trying to...?”

“No!” I say a little too loud, “I mean... I don’t think so. We were using condoms and everything.” I scrunch up my nose, realizing I sounded like a washed up teenager.

“Those things do break once in a while,” Brian mutters more to himself than to anyone else. “What are you gonna do?”

“Lauren says I’ve already done enough for now,” I reply, slumping further into the couch. I sound like a little kid, how am I ever supposed to raise a little kid?

“When’d you find out?” Brian keeps firing at me, but I’m beginning to distinguish a certain eagerness in his questions.

“About a week ago. I haven’t told anyone yet. Well... except you right now.”

Brian nods, lost in thought; his usually busy hands lying still on the blanket that covers his legs. Not for the first time, the thought strikes me that he looks so much older than I can remember. Maybe that’s because he’s in a wheelchair, but something in his face just makes it all the more real. It is kind of frightening. After a long moment of silence he looks up with a sad smile, “Well,” he drawls, “Let me be the first one to congratulate you then.”

I look back at him uncertainly, “But what am I gonna do?”

Brian’s smile grows a little brighter, “You don’t have to do anything. You’re gonna be a dad whether you like it or not.”

“But I’m not ready to have a kid!” I state, “I _am_ a kid!”

“You’re thirty-five, Nick,” Brian says monotonously, “You’ll figure it out.”

His lack of worry for my situation puts me at ease, but scares me a little at the same time. The old Brian would have jumped up and said that I had been irresponsible; whether that was true or not. I had expected the new Brian to do so too, well... apart from the jumping up, of course. There was something in his attitude that I couldn’t really figure out, but I knew it was on the tip of my tongue. I’m left there in confusion as Brian turns around and starts racing around again. This time, I don’t think he’s doing it out of boredom.

 


	6. In Which Leighanne Hits the Brakes and Brian Tries on a New Leg

“ _He was particularly glad that he wasn’t able to see his legs. They felt as if they weren’t a part of him anymore and he didn’t know if they actually still were. He quickly pushed that thought out of his mind. He had enough gruesome details to worry about. He’d pretty much figured one of his hips was dislocated, judging by the white hot pain that coursed through it every time he moved, and the awkward angle it was bended in underneath the metal frame._

_Anything below his hips felt frozen and numb. He’d tried to experimentally wriggle his toes, but that hadn’t lead to anything. He’d thought about all those movies he’d seen with people pinned under a wreckage. They’d either walk away without a scratch, or had half their bodies amputated.”_

I smiled when I caught sight of him. He didn’t notice me, seemingly too busy with his phone. He just sat there, unconcerned about anything that went on around him. He didn’t see me until I was practically standing in front of him. Looking up, he gave me a tired smile, “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself,” I replied, walking up behind him and grabbing the handles of the wheelchair. “Am I late?”

“Nah,” he drawled, returning his gaze towards his phone again when he figured out he was going to be pushed towards the car without having to lift a finger. “We finished early.”

“Have you been outside the whole time?” I asked, a little concerned at the apparent lack of jacket. In my opinion, it was rather cold for May. That, and considering Brian wasn’t moving around a lot, I had reason to be concerned.

“We just finished, like five minutes ago,” Brian replied, a little annoyance slipping into his voice.

“Alright, alright. I was just asking,” I muttered.

Brian’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. I felt my heart sink a little, just like it always did when I studied him closely. He looked to be twenty years older than he actually was; the old fashioned blanket laying over his legs being the main reason for that. And the tired, pained expression on his face that seemed to be permanently there didn’t help either. “Why the heck did you park so far away anyway?” he asked.

“I thought we’d have a nice walk instead first, before being cramped up in the jeep,” I answered.

“Everyone can see us out here, Leigh,” he grumbled, as if I needed a lecture on public appearance after more than fifteen years.

I looked around and shrugged, not seeing a single soul in sight, “Doesn’t seem like anyone’s interested.”

He mumbled something inaudible before returning his attention once again to his phone. When we finally arrived at the jeep, he insisted on climbing in himself. I watched his struggle with a frown, but knew better than to step in and help him. He reminded me slightly of Baylee when the child had had this phase of doing everything on his own. Baylee had been three at that time, though. It took a whole of five minutes before Brian had himself seated, but he threw me a cocky, triumphant grin anyway. I smiled back at him, climbing into the jeep in a few seconds, after folding the wheelchair and dumping it in the trunk. Brian had quickly made sure to reposition the blanket around his lower half after he had climbed in, yet I couldn’t help but letting my gaze linger on the place where his right leg was supposed to be. I knew I made a mistake when he gave me a heated glare of annoyance and I quickly turned the ignition on. “So, what did you guys talk about?”

Brian kept staring at me for a couple more seconds before deciding to reply, “You know, the future and stuff.”

I nodded, putting the car in reverse and carefully backing up, “And what does this future look like?” I questioned. I knew we had talked about it a few times before, but Brian had never actually made the step to tell the guys.

“Well,” he drawled, intently looking out of the windshield, “tour starts again in September.”

I hit the brakes before I knew what I was doing and we both jerked against our seatbelts, “September?” I repeated, shocked.

“Uhuh,” my husband replied, avoiding my stare like a pro.

“That’s in four months, Brian!” I said, as if he didn’t realize that, “You can’t-”

“Can’t what?” Brian sneered, his eyes narrowed dangerously as he finally turned his face to me. I looked down at his legs again and he groaned, his face scrunching up in anger. “I can sing!” he growled.

I bit my cheek and decided not to give into the fight for now. I knew that just singing wouldn’t be enough for Brian, but he was nowhere close to being ready to hear that. “Maybe if you wouldn’t keep sending legs back,” I mumbled quietly.

“They don’t fit!” Brian exploded next to me, “Do I have to freaking spell it out before you believe me?”

“You won’t even try,” I accused, finally deciding to return to the task of at least getting us out of the parking lot. It wasn’t the first time we had this fight, and I knew he wouldn’t back down, just like I knew I wouldn’t stop bothering him with it either. Fact was, those legs cost a lot of money to keep having to send them back and order new ones. That, and the reasons he gave for them not fitting were more than questionable. By now I was pretty sure he just didn’t want them to fit. Sighing, I shook my head slightly, seeing him stare out of the window with a restrained expression. I bit my lip, feeling tears in my eyes. I wished we didn’t have to fight about this. I knew I shouldn’t push him into acceptance like this, but if he was keen on doing everything himself and not needing any help, and _for Lord’s sake,_ going on tour in four months, he needed to accept his situation, and fast.

My resignation turned to worry when I saw him wince, “Are you okay?” I whispered softly. He nodded stiffly, not breaking his stare as his hand slipped into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Fine,” he mumbled.

“Your leg bothering you?” I persisted, already knowing the answer to that question anyway.

“It’s fine,” he hissed through clenched teeth, his hand turning into a fist inside his pocket. “Just drive.”

My mouth twisted when I noticed him retrieving the bottle of pills from his pocket, before popping two of them into his mouth. After a few minutes, he seemed to relax a little bit more. By now it was pretty much a given that he would always keep experiencing pain from his left leg. At the time, the option had been suggested to amputate part of that leg too, as it was too messed up inside to ever fully recover, but Brian had made sure to let the doctors know that there was no way in _hell_ that was ever going to happen. One leg gone was more than enough. So instead, he hobbled along in physical therapy, his face scrunching up in pain as he put his full weight on his leg and tried to balance on it without falling. I had watched the therapy the first few times, but couldn’t stand to see the agony anymore.

“Did you know Nick is becoming a father?” His voice snapped me out of my thoughts and I instinctively stamped down on the brake pedal again, right before making a left turn.

“What?”

“Jeez,” he breathed, watching me with round eyes, “I do not care much for getting into another accident.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, setting the car into motion once again. “Nick?”

“I was as surprised as you are,” Brian said, his eyebrows raised, “seems like he hasn’t told anyone before now.”

“Wow,” I said, sitting back a little as we finally got onto the highway, “Nick Carter.”

“I know.”

“Poor child.”

“He’ll be fine once he get the hang on it,” Brian mumbled.

“Like how you got the hang on it?” I grinned back at him and he rolled his eyes.

“I was excellent,” He said indignantly.

“You’d think you’d never seen a diaper before,” I replied with a laugh.

“Well, I was the youngest child back home,” He said defensively, “And those things are tricky.”

“Sure they are,” I said with a smile, glad that the tension had disappeared. Evening was falling by the time we arrived home. Getting out of the car was decidedly easier than getting into it and Brian needed only two minutes before having himself seated in his chair with the blanket neatly draped over his legs again. He didn’t wait for me to get our stuff from the car before he raced down the driveway. He was astonishingly fast and I sighed, annoyed. This was what I got for driving him home.

“You’re like a child,” I said dryly when I caught up with him at the front door.

“Could you open the door please, ma’am?” He asked sweetly, a boyish smirk lifting the pained look from his eyes.

I laughed, deliberately slowly turning the key in the lock. I kept smiling when he brushed passed me and rolled into the hallway, spreading his arms. “Ladies and Gentleman, the housekeeper is home!”

I nodded at Harold as I saw him appear from the kitchen, an amused expression on his face, but decidedly unimpressed by his brother’s sudden good mood. He held a fairly large package in his hands, extending it towards Brian, “Attempt number six,” he stated solemnly.

Brian halted immediately, looking a little bit taken aback by the package. We all kept silent, all of us knowing what was in there. Brian slowly rolled up to his brother, grasping unto the box with both hands and carefully laying it across his laps. He stared at it for a couple of seconds, lost in thought, and then looked up, “Thanks,” he muttered before pushing himself towards the gym on the left.

After Brian disappeared, Harold came to stand next to me, giving me a surprised, but still apprehensive look, “We didn’t even have to force him,” he said, astounded.

I shrugged, deciding that Brian would remain forever unpredictable. “Let’s just wait and see,” I said, a slight hint of worry lacing through my words.

Harold and I took our place in the living room; him getting lost behind his laptop and me reluctantly watching a rerun on television. It took over half an hour for Brian to return, but when he did, my heart surged. I rushed towards him when I saw him leaning heavily against the door frame, a tired, but satisfied grin splitting his face in two. I looked over his shoulder, catching sight of the wheelchair that stood abandoned, a few feet behind him. I saw tears brimming in his eyes and I looked down in shock, the unmistakable sight of the prosthetic leg catching my eye. All of his weight was supported by the door frame and I wasn’t positive he would be able to move, let alone walk on the thing yet, but that didn’t matter in the least.

“Does it fit?” I whispered, hearing my own tears penetrate my voice.

He nodded, and I felt the relief from him streaming into my own. I smiled and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling him close. He stumbled a little and I gladly took over some of his weight. For the first time in almost half a year he was taller than me again and I breathed a sigh I had been holding in for all that time. It didn’t matter that all the legs that Brian had sent back were the exact same size as this one. It didn’t matter in the least.

With a bit of grunting and stumbling, we moved over to the couch awkwardly, where Harold welcomed us with a huge smirk. “About time,” He grumbled.

“Shut up,” Brian answered.

I kept smiling, enjoying the banter between the two brothers. My smile faltered though when Brian retrieved the pills from his pockets again and popped two in his mouth. I had seen him doing the same thing not even two hours ago. I kept smiling when he looked at me, but inside, a cold kind of apprehension grew.


End file.
